


Son Of Woman

by MrEvilside



Series: Statecraft [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Jötunheimr | Jotunheim, Plot Twists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 15:12:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1474363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrEvilside/pseuds/MrEvilside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Like father, like son, I suppose.”<br/>Loki arches an eyebrow. For some reason, he suspects it is not Odin the Jötunn is referring to, and he doesn’t like the turn this conversation is taking. “What are you talking about?”<br/>“You already know,” she says quietly, fixing him with a piercing stare. “I speak of Laufey. Your father…”. She pauses; her eyes look sadder, now, but her grasp on the spear is as strong and unrelenting as a man’s. “… My husband.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Son Of Woman

Loki is falling.

He falls so hard and for so long that he almost forgets how it is to stop. He feels the nothing around him, rippling, whispering, breathing. He knows that it wants him, that it starves for him, and startles in fear and horror when one of its tentacles gets too close; other times, instead, he wants to just give in, to die, to reach out and let it have him.

He never indulges such a death wish, not because he has anything or anyone left to go back to, but because he is a coward. He is afraid of what awaits him should he yield to the nothing.

When he lands, it is so quick and unexpected that he doesn’t even have time to be shocked. In fact, he feels nothing but pain crawling all over his body, sinking its ruthless nails into his skull, tearing him apart.

Desperately trying to overcome the suffering, he attempts to make out his surroundings. His eyes prove untrustworthy, since apparently he only sees darkness; his back has hit hard concrete with sharp irregularities—rocks, perhaps—and his extremities are quickly turning numb because of the deadly cold seeping under his skin.

A shadow looms over him, tall and slim, and the god struggles to sit up, to defend himself, but his fall was _so_ long and he is _so_ tired, he can’t bring himself to move from where he lies.

Perhaps death is upon him, and he does not even have a chance to escape it.

His eyes close heavily and darkness cradles him. For how long, he does not know. However, it is not the blackness of death, for at some point he is woken up by the terrorizing awareness of impending peril and sits up, placing one hand behind his back for support, rummaging in his clothes hastily with the other for a weapon of any kind.

His fingers do not even reach past the fabric of his black coat, though, before the cold point of a spear presses softly against his windpipe, too gently to hurt, but not enough to pass unnoticed.

“Were I in your place, I would not do that.”

A woman’s voice, icy and commanding, holding control in a way Loki realizes he doesn’t match, not in the slightest, and the equally cold steel of a spear brushing against his vulnerable neck.

He stills for a second, then slowly looks up and fixes her with his most helpless, most innocent gaze. The remnants of genuine fear still gnawing at him do help his lie as does the very truthful lump in his throat, which proves useful for his tone to tremble just enough to make him seem even more vulnerable and innocuous. Seem, of course—never actually _be_.

She is Jötunn, yet her features are gracious, pleasant, even, and her body is slim and harmonious, albeit burdened by the weight of old age, engraved in the wrinkles on her face and in the long-lost smoothness of her dark blue skin.

The god can’t tell why he finds her beautiful, when he should despise every single one of them—of his own kin. Perhaps he is delusional, blinded by exhaustion; perhaps he is so desperate to belong somewhere that he would even fool himself into thinking monsters decent enough for him. It is laughable, what loneliness and hatred and shame can do to a man, even to a prince.

He inhales, exhales, and finally speaks in a calm voice: “I do not wish for harm to come to either of us, ma’am. I am from a very distant… place, hence my enemies have cast me away. I am a lost traveler, looking for shelter. My name is…”.

“I already know who you are and where you are from, Loki of Asgard,” she interrupts him brusquely, eyes narrowed, lips pursed.

The Liesmith’s gaze falls on her weapon and wonders who would be faster if he tried to snatch it from her. Judging by his condition and by her firm grip around the staff of the spear, he has close to no possibility of success.

The Frost Giantess must understand what manner of thoughts are crossing his mind, because she offers him a toothy, joyless grin. “Apparently, unlike your brother, you know when to talk as well as when to be silent.”

The Liesmith has to fight back the instinct to growl at the word “brother”, but she does not notice his discomfort—or perhaps simply ignores it—as she murmurs, her smile gone: “Like father, like son, I suppose.”

Loki arches an eyebrow. For some reason, he suspects it is not Odin the Jötunn is referring to, and he doesn’t like the turn this conversation is taking. “What are you talking about?”

“You already know,” she says quietly, fixing him with a piercing stare. “I speak of Laufey. Your father…”. She pauses; her eyes look sadder, now, but her grasp on the spear is as strong and unrelenting as a man’s. “… My husband.”

The god’s usual self-confidence falters, if only for a moment, and he feels lost.

This, of all things, he did _not_ see coming.

However, he is quick at cloaking himself in self-control once again, lifts up his chin in defiance and holds the woman’s gaze steadily as he exposes his throat to her blade. “Then I can only imagine how hard it must be for you to keep yourself from getting your righteous revenge.” The truth has an odd taste on his tongue—he can really only imagine, because when it was time to get his own revenge on Laufey, he didn’t even _try_ to restrain himself. “Why not put an end to your torment earlier?”

The Frost Giantess widens her eyes in surprise and withdraws the spear from the Liesmith, as though she _fears_ he might hurt himself. She doesn’t put it down, though.

“It is not your death that I seek,” she declares crisply. “I have already lost my husband. Why would I desire to lose my only child as well?”

It is so simple a reason that Loki could even feel touched, if it wasn’t for one small detail. “You were not as caring when Laufey decided to cast me out to die in the cold, were you, _mother_?”

And again, he doesn’t hold anything back—anger, betrayal, despise, hate—he spits out every single drop of venom he can find in the putrescent, black abortion that his heart has become. His every word is meant to hurt, pierce, and draw blood.

For all that he is a master of words, the Jötunn doesn’t so much as blink. Her gaze hardens as she stares into the distance, but the god can tell she is burdened by some unpleasant memory rather than by his accusation.

“You have no idea what you are talking about, _son_ ,” she murmurs softly, placing the same emphasis on “son” as he did on “mother”. “Do you even know anything at all about the culture of your own kin? Anything at all about how marriage works here?”

The Liesmith’s first reaction is to snap back at her, but he can’t, because she actually has a point—and a very good one, he ponders begrudgingly.

He is bold and stubborn enough to return her look, though, and she almost smiles at that. A smile as thin and sharp as a shard of ice.

“In our society, women cannot decide who they will be married to. They are sold by their fathers in return for gold, political favors, or whatever they deem fit. I never agreed on becoming Laufey’s wife.” She clenches her teeth, her voice burns like acid. “Nor did I _ever_ agree on abandoning you. He took you from me—”

Realizing she is close to screaming now, the woman cuts herself off abruptly and takes several deep breaths before speaking again. When she does, she is considerably calmer, her words almost inaudible. “In any case, it does not matter anymore. Thanks to you, he received the punishment he deserved.”

The first thought that hits Loki’s mind is, _Well, apparently I am not going to die today_.

Next comes relief, because not only is he going to survive, but perhaps he has also found an ally. Despite his fall, he is not lost, he is not finished.

The abyss has yet to take him. _And I am afraid it will have to wait for a long time still_.

He allows himself a cautious smirk and bows his head, only half serious. “It was a pleasure to be of service. Now, since neither of us holds a grudge against the other, I would suggest…”

“Still.” The Frost Giantess silences him, a sardonic smile matching her son’s. “You left my kingdom without a king and you even attempted to destroy it. This you shall pay for, Loki.”

The god drops the friendly façade as fast as he wore it mere seconds before and takes on a more calculating expression instead.

“You cannot have wasted your time for so long only to toy with me. You are more clever than that,” he notes, arching an eyebrow. “Therefore, I suspect you do not intend to kill me.” He takes her lack of reaction as confirmation and mentally sighs in relief. “Then, pray tell, what is it you want from me?”

Straight to the point, as he rarely is, but at least it earns him what he hopes for: explanations.

The Jötunn tilts her head to the side in a pensive pose and nods a few moments later. “All right.” _Let us end this foolish game of cat and mouse_. “I want you to do something for me in return for your life spared. Actually, it is quite simple: you shall take the throne of Jötunheimr as the new king.”

The request is so unexpected that, as so rarely happens, the Liesmith falls into a stunned silence.

He is so used to being denied a throne by his so-called allies that the least he expected is that he would be offered one by his enemies, especially not after he has almost successfully annihilated their world.

“Are you making fun of me?” It is all that comes to his mind to say, because there is no way she can be serious.

The woman doesn’t reply, but casts an eloquent look at him.

 _Then perhaps it is Fate itself that mocks me_.

“Why would you have _me_ as the king? And how? Perhaps you do not wish me dead,” and he isn’t even altogether certain about that, “but your people do not seem to share the same sentiment.”

She gives him a half smile and shakes her head patiently, as though he is a kid that has just said something silly. It could be the best opportunity to try to escape while she has her guard down, but the Liesmith knows better than to take such a risk; furthermore, he is still too shocked and too tired to move quickly enough.

“You know so little about us.” Loki scrunches up his nose at that, feeling offended despite the circumstances, but she doesn’t let him protest. “We Jötnar value honor. When one of us proves themselves worthier to rule, he is welcome to take the current sovereign’s place. You defeated Laufey in fair combat, so you shall be greeted as his legitimate heir. No one will dare to question your right.”

At that point, his gaze sharpens, his eyes narrow. “You know that our combat was not what you would call ‘fair’.” The smallest of grins makes his lips curl up, baring a splinter of white, shining teeth. This is something he is much more comfortable with: deceit and falsehood, mischief and chaos. This is Loki, one and the same with him. “You want to lie to them.”

“I would rather say mislead them for the better.”

“What is in it for you if I become king?”

“You will not be king right away,” explains the Frost Giantess. “You are still young; you need to learn a great deal before you can be trusted with such power. In the meantime, as your mother, I will be queen and also your teacher.”

The Liesmith can see how they are similar, how they are truly mother and son. _Only, we are not and never will be_. There is too much time, too many lies, too many thorns between them. However, they have at least one thing in common: power. _We may not be family, but we can still be allies_.

“So, tell me, Loki,” she asks one more time—one last time—her voice solemn and her face as hard as steel, “what say you?”

Slowly, warily, the god extends a hand upwards in her direction. “I say, aye, Mother.”

The smirks they exchange feel like looking in a mirror.

 _Like father, like son? I do not think so_.


End file.
